Inadequate
by Feej
Summary: Without a word, Mycroft opened his umbrella, shielding his brother from the light spray of not-quite-rain that had started, and handed him the file filled, with the embassy contacts he might need.  Sherlock nodded, "You didn't need to."
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: don't own.

To Sidney :)

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><p><strong>Inadequate. <strong>

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><p>Without a word, Mycroft opened his umbrella, shielding his brother from the light spray of not-quite-rain that had started, and handed him the file, filled with the embassy contacts he might need.<p>

Sherlock nodded, without meeting his brother's gaze, "You didn't have to."

"I know."

He stood next to him, shoulders almost touching. He didn't tell his brother to be careful. He didn't tell him not to go to Switzerland. He also did not tell him that he loved him, that he would miss him and that, God, he was so terribly sorry.

He didn't need to.

"You're built like a rake, you should eat more."

Sherlock smiled, making that little hm-like sound at the back of his throat, so familiar that it almost hurt to hear it. The smile turned into a grin.

"You should eat less."

Mycroft cherished the routine, sending his brother a glare. That would do.

The drizzle had turned into a real spring shower, raindrops rhythmically drumming the surface of the umbrella above their heads. They stood in their odd cocoon, silently observing London passing by.

Sherlock lowered his gaze and breathed in, breaking the silence that had been blanketing them.

"Thank you."

"Always, Sherlock."

"You should leave."

Looking back, he let his eyes linger, just for a second, on the slender form of his younger brother, still staring off into space and already soaked by the rain pouring down without any mercy whatsoever. His long fingers clenched around the umbrella, as he cursed his own blatant inadequacy.


	2. Chapter 2

He worried.

Constantly.

He told himself it was actually a good thing his cameras couldn't find his brother, because if they couldn't, then Moriarty's men sure as hell wouldn't find him either.

But still, he worried.

Lying to Lestrade, Ms. Hudson and even to John had been a breeze. Pretending to be heartbroken had been disturbingly easy. Actually letting his little brother go off on his own, hunting down God knows what, was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

There was the occasional glimpse, a flash of a smile sent to his ever-present cameras. He took that as an 'I'm fine, you're an idiot.' And there were the less-than-frequent calls for assistance, information or 'back-off-I've-got-this-under-control.'

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

The times where he could tell his brother not to, where a simple 'no, Sherlock, be careful, that dog will bite,' was enough to keep him safe, were long gone.

Not that that had worked very well back then, actually. Mycroft almost smiled at the memory of a five-year-old bunch of curls and blue eyes, enthusiastically and fearlessly running towards Mr. Fischer's rather mean and ugly Labrador. His mother had not been pleased.

He breathed in, deep and even breaths, knuckles turning white around his umbrella. He couldn't come to understand why this _hurt_ so much.


	3. Chapter 3

He looked down at the still figure of his brother, sleeping on his sofa. Sleeping. On his sofa.

He was back.

Mycroft shook his head to clear it from the unidentified emotions, tumbling over one another, preventing his mind from working properly.  
>They wouldn't go away.<br>Nor would this odd feeling in his stomach, the bubbling sensation he wasn't familiar with, and the weird lump-like thing that was stuck in his throat

He must have eaten something that was off. That was probably it.

He stretched out his hand, and ever so lightly touched the tousled black curls.

He really had come back.

How had the little bugger gotten in without any of his particularly high-tech security systems going off…?

His annoyingly uncooperative brain registered the scars, white lines covering the thin hands, an angry red mark in his little brother's neck, and he knew, through the mist of red anger that suddenly clouded his brain, that he had failed. Failed to protect the one thing he cared about, failed to shield him from pain, from hurt, and from the world.

Going by the dampness of the curls he was now stroking, even the rain had beat him to it.

He almost laughed, as the umbrella fell from his grip, landing on the floor with a soft thud that sounded like a drumbeat in the silence.

Sherlock didn't move, his breaths deep and even, with that particular Sherlock-huff-of-air occasionally escaping from his lips.

Mycroft stepped away from the sofa. With his heart racing, his chest in a tight knot, his stomach bubbling and his mind completely clueless, he felt just like he had three years ago.

Hopelessly inadequate.

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><p><strong>Thank you all for readingfollowing and commenting on this story! I really love writing Mycroft, and i'm glad people like to read about him... Thanks :)  
><strong>

**Also: I've moved to the UK, and have been without internet for a while... It's good to be back ;)**


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